


Undertow

by the_cross_the_albatross



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pets, Plans For The Future, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cross_the_albatross/pseuds/the_cross_the_albatross
Summary: May 8, 1845 - The Admiralty has hosted an official reception in honor of Franklin’s expedition, which is set to depart in just over a week’s time. At Blackheath, James Ross would like a word with Francis Crozier before he sails.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> It took me seven months, but I finally finished my first Rossier story ever! For the most part, this is historically compliant, so check the end-notes for too much research. 
> 
> Thanks to the Rossier server, especially [mothicalcreatures (laelreenia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laelreenia/pseuds/mothicalcreatures), for encouraging me to get this finished. Thank you also to [franklins-leg](https://franklins-leg.tumblr.com) for putting up with my endless yelling about Ross, and giving this a final read-through. 
> 
> The title is from a song by Genesis. Go listen to it if you have the time! It really is a perfect song for Crozier and Ross.

It is a strange hour, this, the space between dusk and dawn. Something more advanced than night, and not quite yet morning—when conversation has faded in darkened rooms, and the bustle petered out with the clatter of wheels along cobbled streets. Under a hazy night sky the village is empty, with only the street-lamps themselves to throw shadows. It is a cold, quiet night for spring, and beyond a dim window in Eliot Place, where the hour is marked only by the single bell at Saint Margaret’s, all that stirs is the rustle of wind in the garden, and the occasional shriek of the foxes that run in pursuit across the heath. 

Francis takes in the scene with quiet contentment. He has allowed all the lamps to burn down, leaving the room to the orange glow of the fire-place, and with soft moonlight streaming through the window he can imagine he is the only soul awake for miles. It is a pleasant conclusion to a pleasant evening, he thinks, and a pleasing contrast, to have enjoyed both celebration and solitude. 

The Admiralty had made a proper show of it, of course, announcing the ships’ successful trials with all their characteristic flash and excess. Toasts were raised, warm wishes given, and Francis had spent the whole of it in a whirlwind of blue and gold, passed between all the Old Arctics who wished him luck and pressed glasses of champagne into his hand. It was a fitting send-off, and he could not have asked for better, with all his valued old shipmates in attendance. And at the end of it, this is fitting as well, to his mind, to sit by the hearth of a dear friend’s home, where nothing is asked of him, and to commit to memory the peace of these past months.

It might have been jealousy, at one point, staying here with James and Anne. It is still uncanny, at least, to think of his dear, indefatigable James engaging a _permanent_ home, with a family, showered with laurels and a knighthood to boot. Francis may always be a little out of place, among all that James has achieved and Francis can only borrow for a time—for the sea still has him, and will for a while yet. But it is all comfort, now, to live with friends at his side, always with a soul to engage in mutual pursuits or easy conversation; and he will remember it fondly with hope for its repetition, when he has sailed again.

There is a rustling in the direction of his feet, and Francis smiles at the shameless intrusion to his reverie. He looks down to find the household cat purring beside his leg, scrubbing against the sofa and brushing past his ankle with her usual enthusiasm. He heaves a dramatic sigh at her overt demands for attention (she dotes on James, he knows, and must only be here because the man has turned her out of his room), and laughs a little to himself, for it is also incongruous to think of James so suitably _domesticated_ as to keep a cat. 

“Well, come on then,” he says, patting his hand against the empty cushion to his side. Born though she may have been as a ship’s hunter, brought into the world behind the stove on _Terror_ , the cat has an almost comical sense of indulgence. She jumps up eagerly with a muffled chirp, curling automatically into a neat ball that leaves her head knocking against Francis’s outstretched hand. 

“Spoiled creature,” Francis mutters, turning his wrist to scratch behind her ears. No, in twenty-five years of friendship he had never suspected James of being the type to grow attached to something so _settled_ as a lap-cat. James is an uncommon man. He ought to have kept lorikeets or black swans, or a platypus in a garden pond, or even a kookaburra like young Miss Franklin had—a thing so singular and extravagant as the man himself. But the Antarctic had changed something in him. He had gone ashore with an almost theatrical air of finality, and a kiss to the ship’s bell. He had his wife and his scientific work, now, to keep him occupied: it was the _voyage of his life_ , he said, that he had embarked upon, heedless of the cliché. And he had seemed so pleased, Francis had very nearly let him get away with it. 

Whatever James claimed the Antarctic had done to his nerves, it had not taken his easy manner nor his charm. So it had been meant as a joke, at first, how much trouble Francis had given him over it. Certainly the most famous explorer on active service would not simply step down at the height of his triumph—certainly not so energetic a man as James. Anne had never asked it of him, no matter how her father complained. James would feel the sea nipping at his heels again, soon enough. He would see, Francis had laughed, even as he had embraced James farewell and waved him off to his honeymoon. 

It had been some months later, when muttering of a Northern expedition had arisen, that Francis had gone again to James. He had thought that a joke as well, a parody of the sailor humbled, when he arrived to find the man in his study with a pair of reading-glasses and a _novel_ , of all things, rather than deep in preparation. It was ludicrous—for who else could the Admiralty have asked? James was in his prime. A little more squarely built than he had been, perhaps, and a good deal more gray, but still there was no other like him. 

Francis sighs again. He does not like to remember it now, especially after so pleasant a night as this one. He shakes himself before he can complete the recollection, leaning slightly toward the pile of ornamental pillows that the cat has claimed as her own. If he and James had quarreled, if Francis’s natural stubbornness had come to heads as it occasionally did with James’s quick temper, and if the rift had been slow to mend, it is no matter now. Francis can do nothing but forgive him, now that he sees how well retirement agrees with James—now that he sees the man every day in his study with his books and his instruments and the spring air streaming in from the garden, and every evening with Anne in his parlour and his newborn son in his arms. 

Yes, James has perhaps softened with age, but it had been good to have him at his side again tonight. And James had flourished in company as always, the two of them laughing and carrying on as they had done years before, when they had been universally recognized and inseparable as the Two Captains of the South. Francis ought to have spent more of the night in the company of Sir John, he supposes, like the dutiful second he made a reputation for being. But James had pursued him like a shadow, quick to take his arm or goad him into a shared story, and Francis had followed James in return, happy in his own powerlessness to deny him. 

The old hands had behaved predictably, of course, doting on the newest member of their polar round table. Tongues loosened by wine, they had teased James somewhat beyond the usual due— _Ah, Ross_ , Parry had exclaimed late in the evening, with a good-natured if somewhat tipsy smile, clapping a hand to James’s back with a familiarity few were allowed. _Regretting your decision yet, not to take this one?_ But James had listened with grace, nodding gently as he declined every inquiry. In the end, he had wrapped a brotherly arm across Francis’s shoulders, and raised his glass in confidence: to the combined successes of “Frank and Franklin.” 

It had a ring to it, he has to admit, when James had said it. Not as charming, perhaps, as the simplicity of the “Two Captains,” but still a designation he could learn to live with. He laughs a little to himself, and looks down to find the cat has drawn herself up against his leg, purring with abandon. “Frank and Franklin,” he mutters at her, wrapping his hand around her middle, and only slightly lamenting the results of her gray fur and his best trousers. “What say you, then?” 

The cat merely curls further toward him, making herself scarce as if against a creeping draught. Francis finds he rather agrees with her priorities. Some time ago there had been a fire in the hearth, but in his inattention it has burned down, and though the coals maintain a brilliant glow they are still a poor companion on a chill night. It is more than enough reason to think of sleep, to head upstairs to take refuge in the over-cautious number of blankets that Anne always lays out for him. The thought is inviting, and Francis has but to reason with himself to make the cold passage through the hallway to get there—but he is interrupted by a dull knocking behind him, and a pointed cough from the same direction.

He turns with a sudden jolt, prompting an unseemly creak from the sofa and a dirty look from the cat. With an irritable trill she stretches her front legs, and jumps off in search of more peaceful quarters.

“I thought I would find you in here,” says an evidently-pleased voice, full of mirth at this display. “Still recovering from all the well-wishes of your admirers?” 

There is a shadow in the doorway, standing just out of the light cast by the fire. Francis blinks impatiently into the darkness, only to be startled once more as the figure takes a single illuminated step forward. 

It is not that the man’s appearance is _entirely_ out of place. If he has removed the more uncomfortable trappings of uniform after their evening out, Francis cannot blame him. If he holds himself with an overly familiar degree of relaxation, that is not so very strange either, among friends. A certain level of dishevelment ought to be expected in one’s own home, Francis supposes. But the sight of James Clark Ross—captain, baronet, and vice president to the Royal Society—dressed only in his trousers and a shirt fully undone at the neck, is not one to be readily expected anywhere. Even in the Antarctic, where in the unpredictable climate of a Sylvester-heated ship he and James had hardly stood on any ceremony with each other, the man had had the propriety to keep his stockings on.

“James,” Francis croaks, looking his friend up and down. He finds himself at a loss as to whether the scene should be comic, or worrisome, or something more personally unsettling. “What’s happened? I thought for certain you had gone to bed.”

Whatever tone his voice has taken on is evidently of no consequence to Ross, who merely leans his head against the doorframe and shrugs with one shoulder. “Oh,” he says, mildly. “Nothing, nothing—I could not sleep quite yet.”

“Ah.” Francis looks over his silhouette once more, noting now the little repeated flick of his wrist and the glass suspended between his fingers. He feels his mouth twist into a cautious frown.

“It is dreadfully late, James.”

“An astute observation, old man.” James raises the glass as if to drink from it, but continues to regard Francis with a raised eyebrow over its rim. “But upon my last recollection, the hour alone ought not be any cause for alarm.”

“Is Anne—?” 

“Well, perfectly well!” Ross shakes his head and huffs an incredulous sound, spreading his hands in an exasperated way that Francis knows well enough to read without insult. “All is well! Good lord, can I not only wish to see you?” 

He pushes off the doorframe with the shadow of a sigh, and makes his way across the room as softly as he had appeared. His silence is not matched by any degree of grace, however, and once he has paused to throw a fresh log on the fire he drops heavily onto the sofa, knocking his arm against Francis’s in a clumsy manner that seems only superficially accidental.

Even in the low light, it is evident that James’s eyes are heavy, and his face somewhat flushed from the merriment of the evening. He runs a hand through his hair—not for the first time this evening, Francis guesses by the way his usually neat curls fall in tousled disarray. Francis looks skeptically at the glass still balanced in James’s other hand, now resting precariously on one knee.

“Oh,” James says again, looking lazily past his wrist to meet his friend’s inquisitive gaze, and lowering his hand to his lap. “Apologies. I should have offered. Did you—?” 

There is a loud crackling sound from across the room, as the fire springs once more to life, and Francis feels the tension he has held within himself break, at last. He laughs softly. “No, no,” he affirms, reaching across to ease the glass from James’s fingers. “I think not. The evening was more than sufficient for me. As it was for you, it would seem...” He raises the glass to examine it, letting the firelight glint through its honeyed contents. “What is this, anyway?” 

Of all the things Francis shares with James, his taste in wine has never been one. He ought to have guessed, he thinks, but too late—the displeased sound he makes as the bitter tang of sherry passes his lips seems to strike Ross as particularly amusing. Francis thrusts the glass aside with a purposeful click on the side-table, and a grimace that earns an inelegant snort from his companion. 

He shoots James a dismayed look. “Enjoyed yourself tonight, did you?” 

Deprived of any other occupation, James has laid an arm across the back of the sofa, and sways sideways once more against Francis’s shoulder. The action raises certain questions; while Francis knows Ross to be naturally animated in company, he is no maudlin-drunk, and he is only ever demonstrably affectionate when it suits his own terms. But neither is he the type who would readily speak if pressed, and so Francis limits his inquiry to the quirk of an eyebrow.

“I did,” James confirms, either oblivious or willfully ignorant. He knocks the back of his hand against Francis’s leg in emphasis. “Contrary to the expectations of _some_ , I may add. Overall a successful evening, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I’d say I passed through the chain of lords unscathed,” he agrees. “It was good to see Lady Jane again at least—and dear old Bird, of course. Pleasantly like old times, in that regard. Although—,” he smirks, as a particular image resolves at the forefront of his mind, “I must say this new _lapse in table manners_ allowed for veterans of both poles was highly irregular and unexpected.” 

“Ha!” Ross exclaims. Without warning he turns to lean his back against Francis’s arm, landing enough force that the action almost unbalances them both sideways into a pile of ornamental pillows. He continues unperturbed, “Allowed both feet on the table, indeed!” and swings both legs upward onto the cushions in illustration. 

Francis groans in protest. _“Indeed,”_ he echoes, and tries to jostle his friend into a less oppressive position. But James has managed a curious feat of engineering, with his weight bracketed by his shoulder blades around Francis’s arm, and he is powerless to apply any discernible amount of leverage.

“For God’s sa—” Francis mutters, and concedes the fight by collapsing back as far as the sofa will allow. “Subtlety is not one of your finest features, is it, James?” 

Ross says nothing, only sets his jaw against some private amusement known only to himself. Francis glares at him, contemplating exactly which rude gesture is most appropriate when one’s friend has his back turned. But when James looks up at him, companionable and at his leisure, he cannot help but be driven to laughter, instead. 

He has reason enough to be mirthful tonight, after all. He has recollections enough to drive him to it, as well: James, for example, at a hand of cards after supper, a glass of wine in his hand and a circle of ladies and young officers alike for admirers. James had been in the midst of one of his favorite anecdotes when Francis had found him—the Aurora Australis over the sea of bergs, so like and so _unlike_ its northern cousin—and every gesture of his gloved hand flashed amber in the candlelight. Francis had made a mental note, then, to make count of how many words James had contrived to simply describe the color _blue_ , and had intended to tease him mercilessly for it later. James had only just substituted _sapphire_ for _azure_ , however, when Francis had been distracted by the almost foolishly awestruck expression on the face of one officer in particular. 

Francis had nearly choked on his own wine at the time, and he chuckles to remember it now. “On which note,” he says, “did you see Fitzjames’s face when you tried that _tradition_ the first time? I must count myself enlightened. I had begun to wonder whether there was anything that could drive that man into silence.”

Ross’s amusement breaks fluidly into a broad grin, as easily as the way in which he stretches one ankle to rest crossed with the other over the arm of the sofa. 

“Come now, old boy,” he retorts. “You ought to give the man some degree of credit. He is the very same officer I had petitioned the Admiralty to send to the Antarctic with us as a gunnery lieutenant, after all. He is young and full of youthful eagerness to be sure, but I recall that you and I were once very much the same. And I know that _even you_ could not claim that a little enthusiasm would go amiss among Sir John’s men.”

“Hm. Well that may all be true, but nonetheless he could not—or at least he _would_ not take his eyes off of you, James.”

At this observation Ross tilts his head back, and looks up with such incredulity that Francis cannot help but roll his eyes. The man must know how he looks, like this, undone in the firelight and reclining upon his friend’s arm. But Ross is a deliberate man, and more than ordinarily shameless when the mood takes him. 

“Yes, yes,” sighs Francis, content to admit defeat. “I am aware that I cannot personally blame a man for such a thing. Now—you are crushing all the feeling out of my shoulder. You are intending to stay here all night?” 

“I have a mind to.” 

“Ah. Well, then. If that is the case—.” He retrieves the largest of the pillows from the haphazard collection at his side, and deposits it squarely in his lap. “I must insist on a change of arrangement. I know the Admiralty places a great weight on your opinion, but I do suspect that they would prefer me with _both_ functional arms in the coming months.”

“Hmf,” Ross mutters, and closes his eyes obstinately. “Nelson managed, if I recall.”

“ _Nelson_ had Hardy with him, you peacock of a man. Some of us must make do with our own. Now off you get.”

It ought to be a farcical image, Francis thinks as Ross finally rearranges himself—as incongruous as _Terror_ ’s mouser turned lap-cat—to think of the polar knight sharing close quarters with his second. How society would balk to think of such a thing: and here, in England, where there is no fear of cold nor danger, and no great motive but companionship.

Were he a more cautious man, Francis might find it in himself to care. But James leans into him so easily, as if it were the natural order of things—as if he were still the green midshipman Francis had known on _Fury_ , and not the dashing explorer he has become. He lowers himself without hesitation, although Francis notes with amusement that if he and the housecat are equally anomalous, they are also equally tedious in their attempts to lay comfortably.

“I do wish you were coming with us,” he ventures, carefully, when James has settled at last. Shoulders squared against Francis’s leg and his eyes closed in relaxation, James‘s brow furrows briefly, though he makes no reply. Only half-teasing, Francis occupies himself with one of the buttons at James’s collar, and smiles, watching it catch firelight like a beacon as it turns in his fingers. “Are you tired of hearing that?”

James opens his eyes and regards him with a curiously appraising look. “No,” he says gently, when he has made his assessment. “I do—I still feel it, you know. Nights like this more than others, with old shipmates and old stories and all. But my days of adventuring are over, Frank. You will admit I have had more than my due. And if I am honest I am more than content to be a relic, a curiosity for others to ponder over.” With a shake of his head he reaches back, and gives a slight squeeze to Francis’s leg above the knee.

“And besides,” he brightens, gesturing vaguely at his body before letting his arm drop heavily to the cushions. “I think it somewhat apparent that a settled life has rather _laid its hold_ on me.” 

He has the audacity to punctuate the statement with an absurd wink, and grins until Francis cannot help but laugh at how contented he appears in his landlocked situation.

James is exaggerating, of course. Ross can hardly be considered a heavy man—his small stature and active constitution had never borne it, tending even to litheness at the height of his career—but it is true that retirement has lent him a certain broadness across the chest, and a softness to his features that he has not possessed since youth. He no longer bears that hawk-like countenance that had once rendered him so striking to the ladies and the portraitists. It is the set of middle-age, beyond a doubt; and yet for all that, in his new-made uniform that evening, gray hair falling about the deepening lines at his eyes, Francis had thought he looked very fine indeed. 

“James dear, I do believe you are making excuses,” he chides, and slides his arm easily around Ross’s waist. James raises an eyebrow at him, but it hardly manages to look affronted, and his expression relaxes quickly when he tips his head further back against the pillow. Still chuckling to himself, Francis trails his hand along the gentle curve of James’s side, content in the familiar warmth of having his friend close by. 

Francis has had years to acquaint himself with all the angles and aspects that make up James Clark Ross, knows him as minutely as only friends of their standing might. It is with almost absent-minded fondness, then, that his hand wanders over the well-remembered ridge of his hip, the fine angles of his shoulder, the slight odd swell of his twice-broken ribs. He does not find James so _very_ changed now, whatever the man has said—although he notes with pleasure that the latter injury is not so prominent now as it once had been. Cheerfully, he traces his fingers in a circle, and moves on a mischievous impulse to dig them into the softest place he finds. He grins as James tenses and tries to writhe away, muttering something incoherent but wholly indignant.

“It looks well on you, boy,” Francis laughs as Ross glares at him. He raises one hand in surrender, and flattens his palm innocently against James’s side. “You are right of course. Marriage rather suits you, whatever grief I’ve given you over it.”

James’s eyes are narrowed, a tired if entirely unconvincing pout on his lips. He swats Francis’s hand aside, and takes him by the wrist before he can try his trick again. For a moment he holds the hand away from himself, regarding it with apparent disdain—but the weariness of a long evening betrays him, and he relents with a laugh that sounds terribly like a stifled yawn.

“It will suit you as well, I am sure,” James says in a conciliatory tone, catching his hand securely against his chest, “when you return.” 

“I am newly of the belief that there is nothing that could suit anyone so well as discovering the right woman with whom to make their way through life,” Ross continues, flashing a charming smile and jabbing an elbow lightly into Francis’s side. “Rather like finding the right officer to go as second on all of one’s adventures, wouldn’t you say?” 

Francis makes a pained expression at the comparison. James’s gold ring is cold where it skips over his wrist, and he very nearly shivers at the sensation. For a moment he says nothing, reaching across to free the buttons at his cuffs even as Ross maintains his hold. He rolls his eyes, but obliges, when Ross turns his own wrist to the direction of his work.

“Anne is a fine woman,” he concedes when he has done, giving a conciliatory pat to James’s hand. “No less than you deserve. I’m certain I will come back to find you in the countryside somewhere with a whole array of little Rosses filling your household. And all industriously applied, I’m sure: they’ll be amassing a grand collection of rocks and garden specimens, if you have any sway over them.”

Ross hums in agreement. “And I shall make you properly godfather to them all!” he says, “when you assure me you are returned for good. You can help us with our collecting, and our mapping of the stars whenever you wish.”

It is a pleasant fantasy, Francis finds, picturing to himself their little employments. He has imagined it often enough before: James standing in the shallows of a river, trousers rolled to the knee, catching frogs with the boys and showing them where the herons nest; Anne with the girls and her paints in the garden, sun-warmed and blushing when James abandons his work to tuck a spring rose into her hair. Anne a vision of domestic peace, at her embroidery in the orangery; James the retired hero, bent over his writing long into the night.

Francis has tried, of course, to envision some small part for himself in these _tableaux_. It has been his sometime occupation, in late hours when sleep will not come, but as yet he has arrived at nothing. It is the seafarer’s curse, he knows, to be unsure of a life ashore—its certainties lie ever in the future, beyond imagining. But perhaps on some evening, he thinks, when Anne has put the youngest to bed, he and James will lie under the night sky and trace the constellations as they did when they were boys. Side-by-side, he will think how well they mirror those two brothers of the heavens, the twin souls to whom sailors have looked for safety in hardship. He might tell the thought to James, after, when they are alone—but in the moment James will be absorbed as ever with the Pole Star, his eldest boy rapt with the lesson of how his father followed its light so many years ago.

Francis might tell some version of the thought to James _now_ , he considers, while they are both at ease. It could hardly be amiss, given James’s familiar behavior thus far. But the night is far advanced, and he cannot say how long his thoughts have wandered; when he looks back he finds that Ross’s eyes have fallen shut once more, and he is breathing evenly, head turned against Francis’s hip.

 _When I am returned for good_ , he thinks with a resigned sigh, leaning sideways into the pillows and the corner of the sofa. He says nothing, makes no move; only presses his fingertips against the back of James’s hand where it is still curled loosely around his wrist. He tilts his head back against the sofa, and stares blankly at the ceiling. 

_______________________________

When he wakes, he can hardly say whether he slept at all, so unfamiliar is he with the reflections of time here in the London spring. It is not yet light, by any measure, but the first of the blackbirds are already singing from the hedges below the window. The cat is a vague silhouette against the glass, tail twitching in concentration. She crouches in readiness, but Francis knows it is only born of instinct, a curiosity with no real intent. She will tire of the hunt again soon enough, and return to a chair to join the rest of the village in quiet repose.

James, for his part, is still soundly asleep, still laid across Francis’s legs. His quiet breathing is that of a man who has not woken for hours—although at some point he has turned onto his side and shifted close enough that his nose might almost brush the buttons of Francis’s waistcoat. 

The man looks a fright, if Francis is honest—collar askew, hair tumbling across his face at odd angles—and Francis almost laughs aloud at the sight of him. James Ross, intrepid hero, reduced to a tousled bundle of cloth and wayward braces. How must Anne have borne the shock, he suddenly wonders, the first time she woke to find her gallant officer entirely unmade of a morning? 

James’s appearance is not the only casualty of the last hours: Francis has gradually become aware that his leg has gone partially numb, from the prolonged weight laid upon it. He looks again at the cause and rolls his eyes. Later, he thinks, he really ought to scold the man for the intolerable size of his head. Cautiously, he pushes his foot against the floor, trying to work some sensation at least past his ankle.

It is barely any movement at all, curling his toes against the carpet, shifting the weight to his heel—he would not risk waking James now, while he appears so comfortably situated. Caution is not enough to dissuade the curiosity of the cat, however, who has evidently sensed his wakefulness and trots over to sit beside Francis’s feet. Wide-eyed, she swishes her tail in contemplation of the vacant space behind James’s knees. 

_No_ , Francis mouths, and shakes his head. He nudges at her with what little traction he can gain from his toes. 

The cat, however, is a stranger to consequence—she has not taken orders from Francis ever since she left his ship. She adjusts her footing for the jump, and has the gall to glance back at Francis in defiance. Francis slides his foot towards her again with a sigh. He is content to bear her retaliation for it, if it will keep her distracted, but the match is interrupted when James shifts slightly, and mutters something quiet and vaguely irritable. 

Francis raises an eyebrow. It is only the matter of a dream, he is sure; he has known James to talk in his sleep occasionally over the years, especially after he has been subjected to the _liberality_ of a naval affair. But still he turns an accusatory eye at the cat, until she crouches to the floor and sulks at the carpet. 

When he returns his attention to James, he is relieved to find the man’s eyes still closed, although his lashes flutter somewhat against the pillow. He grumbles another low complaint, and in a hasty gesture extends his arm so that the back of his hand collides roughly against Francis’s stomach. 

_James_ , Francis groans, wincing, and yet halfway toward laughing at the absurdity. He ought not envy Anne this much, he thinks, although towards James’s eccentricities he is almost unspeakably fond. For all the time they have known each other, James has always made for an indifferent bunkmate. Even in Hobart town, he recalls, slung side-by-side in the heat of the Australian night, Francis had been required to wrap an arm securely about James’s chest, to spare himself the rude shock of waking to a hand thrown against his face. 

He drapes his arm about James now, out of habit, and mutters a few soothing sounds as James continues to mutter nonsense into the pillow. He presses a hand to James’s back; the man is not frantic, not enough to justify waking him as if from a nightmare, but he is insistent, and the words come somewhat louder and more numerous.

It should be a comfort, sweeping his hand lightly between James’s shoulders—at least, Francis feels, _he_ should find such a thing comforting were he in James’s place. But James hardly takes notice, and if anything becomes further agitated by the contact. “Th’s late,” he grumbles, slurring the words among a few other indistinct sounds. “Th’ charts—season—W’d never—.” He flexes his hand against Francis’s side, and Francis frowns. 

_James_ , he means to say again, sliding his hand to James’s arm, and giving a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder. But James is a demonstrative speaker, given as much to the use of his hands as to his voice when he has a point to make. That he is asleep does not hinder him, and as his hand cuts through the air—“Damn’d foolish,” he growls—Francis narrowly deflects a second blow to the chest. 

When James’s name does leave his lips, it feels like a shout, and Francis nearly winces again at the imagined echo in his ears. The effect is immediate: James grunts something like an acknowledgement, and goes blessedly still, loose-limbed where he lies. Belatedly, Francis realizes that he has caught the man’s hand in his own. 

For a moment he waits in silence, concentrating on the steady rise and fall of James’s chest. Almost impossibly, Ross looks to be entirely oblivious, his face slack and his mouth slightly open—and despite the interruption he is already snoring slightly. Shaking his head, and overcome once again by both disbelief and an almost protective degree of attachment, he passes two fingers through the long hair that curls over James’s collar.

Ross has never minded such familiarity, of course, especially when he is too asleep to notice, so Francis thinks nothing of it. But something tonight has made him sensitive, and when Francis’s hand accidentally brushes over the sleep-warm skin at the back of his neck, James startles, inhaling sharply and knocking his foot against the arm of the sofa. He bolts upright, rolling over and sitting up in one clumsy motion, and sits there breathing heavily, looking both dazed and slightly ill with the shock. 

He blinks into the darkness, staring vacantly over the back of the sofa, and for a moment Francis wonders if he truly is unwell. It would not be the first of such mornings, although Francis cannot say it has ever been born of quite this arrangement. But at last James merely gives a dissatisfied groan, and passes the back of his hand over his eyes. 

When he turns his head, James’s gaze locks on the hand still holding his wrist, and his whole expression contorts with the realization. “I woke you,” he mutters, irritably.

It is such an inadequate statement, spoken so seriously, that despite his better judgement Francis barks out a fitful sort of laugh. “You did not,” he assures James, to his increasingly-dejected look. “I was already awake well before you…well. Thankfully for my own safety, it would seem.” But the joke misses its target, and James snatches his hand defensively back. 

Francis watches James raise the same hand to his face, pulling a weary frown to his mouth as it slides down to his jaw. The room is quiet enough to hear the ticking of his watch on the table beside, and unnerved by the silence Francis circles his fingers over the tufted pattern of the sofa, tracing the warmth where James had been a moment before. When the quiet drags on, unbroken, and James sways a bit where he sits, Francis finally ventures a question. 

“Who was it, if I might ask?” 

James startles again, as if drawn from deep in thought. “Hm?”

“In your dream. You were arguing with someone.”

“Oh,” James glares down at his hands. He mutters something that Francis cannot quite make out, apart from the words, “my uncle.” 

“Ah.” Francis grimaces. “It was _Victory_ , then?”

When James does not respond, Francis heaves a heavy sigh, but it is not without sympathy. The recollection of old John Ross is enough to foul any man’s spirits, even without a lost ship thrown into the bargain. He reaches out a hand to James’s elbow, and when James does not protest, eases him back down.

“Well, no matter the setting,” Francis says lightly, once he has gotten James settled against the pillow once more. He continues to needle at the silence. “If _that_ was the company. Now I hear it, I feel I interrupted you in the midst of delivering the miserable old sod a well-deserved earful. I have half a mind to let you go back forthwith and finish the job.” 

He glances downward with both eyebrows raised, expecting that James will at least issue a wry laugh at this declaration. But James only grunts, draws a shaking breath.

Frustrated, Francis echoes his wordless protest, and returns his arm to its former place across James’s shoulders. “Dreadfully uncommunicative, you are.”

James looks up at him with eyes that are uncommonly sharp. “It’s no…let it be, now,” he snaps. “It was a dream. Hardly an uncommon affliction, when one is asleep.”

Francis frowns deliberately. “Do you say the same to Anne when she finds you thus?” With no countenance for argument, he settles his hand against James’s open collar, where he can feel the man’s heart skipping in his chest. 

James’s face crumples, then hardens again with equal speed. “ _Anne_ does not harass me for my concerns, Frank. She married a sailor and she knows what comes with that, even if he is occasionally burdened with timely anticipation. Good lord! And all this hounding from you, a sailor as well. It’s no matter, I say.”

“Anticipation,” Francis repeats, blankly. James groans, and grits his teeth as if being forced to address the hopelessly obvious.

“God, Frank! One always is anxious before his ship sails. It is only natural.”

He turns his piercing stare on Francis again, and the picture resolves all at once. Of course James would still think of _Erebus_ as his ship, even heavily refitted and under another Captain. His last command; the guardian of his final voyage as an explorer. Francis ought to have seen it immediately. It is a species of sentimentality inherent to sea captains, even those so seasoned as Ross. He had overseen every step in the refitting of the ships, had watched like a hawk even from his place of retirement. And everyone knew he had quarreled with his uncle for it, taking the elder captain’s dire predictions to task with his characteristic fervor.

He feels the realization drawing itself across his face, and tries to school it before Ross can mistake it for pity. 

“Oh, _Sabine_ ,” he means to say, falling back on James’s nickname from the voyage to signal his understanding. But Ross’s expression is agitated, and he blurts out his half-formed confession in an apparent effort to keep the words from Francis’s lips.

“Silly,” he growls. “I know. But those ships were…you and I were, that is…and with _Terror_ still yours, of course. And I…silly,” he repeats again. “Silly old fool I’m becoming…” 

Ross’s hand drifts toward Francis’s, and hovers there for a moment. Something passes in his eyes, a fierceness that Francis has come to know intimately, when the man is riled. 

“Oh, hell,” Ross spits out at last, taking a surprisingly rough grip on Francis’s hand and thrusting it aside. He presses his fingers to his eyes as he rises, stumbling a little with fatigue. “Do without me for a moment,” he mutters. 

Ross makes his retreat to the adjoining room, but whatever he is doing is still audible. It is unsettling, papers rustling and the sound of drawers opening and closing, the man muttering aloud in frustration. Francis steels himself with a resolve that he almost curses for its Englishness—he must have learned it from Ross at some point, he thinks—suppressing his own discomfort by focusing on literally anything else. He rises from the sofa and kneels before the fire, tending to the dwindling coals with far more attention than ought to be necessary in the coming dawn. 

He is poking aimlessly at the spent embers, only trying to occupy his energy when Ross returns at last, head bowed and hands jammed into his trouser pockets. 

Ross says nothing, so Francis must act of his own accord: cautiously, he returns the poker to its stand, and scrambles awkwardly to his feet. The groaning sound he makes as he does so, one knee pressing hard against the unforgiving floor, seems almost enough to make James laugh. But whatever light flashes in his eyes is momentary, and he rocks slightly back on his heels. 

When James reaches out a hand, Francis thinks for a moment that he is offering it in assistance. He means to chide James for it, to tease out a laugh at his own expense (his joints are not so _very_ old; _how little faith you have in your second, James_ ). He is halfway upright already, in fact, and opens his mouth to speak. But when he looks again at James, there is a turn of his wrist and something glints in his hand, and Francis swallows the words. 

The gold case is partially open, traces of gilt and claret velvet showing at the edges. Such a thing is common enough these days, but this one Francis knows immediately. He cannot fail to do so, for he has one of his own, almost an exact copy. The portraits had been Lady Jane’s idea, back in Van Diemen’s Land—Daguerre’s new camera-obscura having only just arrived in the colony, and she always having been eager to lend her support to enterprises of art and science. It was only right, she had said proudly, when she had presented the finished portraits on their departure, that the first navigators of the magnetic poles should also be among the first to have their likenesses captured so faithfully.

James had looked all the hero that day, Francis remembers: gold-braided and resplendent in the harsh Australian sun, telescope over his arm, the double wheel of _Erebus_ steadfast behind him. He had laughed when Francis told him as much, clapped him on the shoulder and assured Francis that he looked much the great explorer himself. But Francis had blushed to be so noticed, while James had not—and even as James had grinned, and resolutely stuck his customary sprig of wattle back into his cocked hat the moment the formal portrait was complete, Francis had known inherently which of them was the greater commander of men.

There is a soft creak, evidently a floorboard being stepped upon, and Francis shakes himself back into the present. “I want you to have this,” James is saying, his voice cracked with gravel. “Keep it with you and—That is, you and I have not always seen eye to eye in the past year. And I’d prefer if you remembered…” 

He trails off with a nervous clearing of his throat, and casts his gaze to the floor with a reserve that is at once so youthful and so earnest that Francis can hardly stifle the sound of fond disbelief that escapes his lips. 

“ _James_ ,” he says gently, taking the man’s hand in his own, and easing his fingers closed around the portrait once more. “I have been staying in your home for months. Only half an hour ago you were sleeping apparently contentedly in m—Good lord, I think we can safely assume any misunderstandings between us have been settled by now.”

James shakes his head once, his lips drawn taught in a firm line. “Please,” he grits out, with still enough of an edge to his voice to seem almost cross. “Only—you know I am no good at this sort of thing, so will you just take it, and say you understand?” 

Francis watches as James’s eyes close for a moment, tension deepening the lines that have formed there. It is true, James is a man of action in all things; he has never had his bearings when speaking in matters of sentiment. Francis adjusts his grip on Ross’s hand, and allows his thumb to brush against the cold metal of the portrait’s case. “I do,” he nods. “Understand, that is. But—Anne will not be upset if you give this away?”

“Anne has _me_ , Frank,” James half barks, sounding both exasperated and somewhat hysterical. “She does not need a copy in miniature at the moment. If I cannot be there to look out for you, I thought— _Christ_.” He pauses, shaking his head again. “At least you would have reason to think of me.” 

Francis’s eyes widen at the admission. But James only clears his throat again irritably, and hastens to continue. “And I’m not _giving it away_ ,” he snaps, drawing himself up. When he meets Francis’s eye, the resolve in his own is iron-gray. “It is a loan, shall we say. I expect you to return it to me as soon as you set foot on English soil.”

“Ah,” Francis says, ducking his head in officer-like acquiescence. He gives a solemn nod, but he squeezes James’s hand, and holds his gaze until the steeliness in his friend’s eyes softens. “I see.” 

James blinks, shuffles one foot against the floor, sets his jaw at the same strong angle he had always worn on _Erebus_ ’s quarter-deck. Then a chord snaps, and he sags there on his feet, breathing a sigh that drains all the command from his body. He says nothing more, merely releases his hold with the resigned look of a man dispensing his duty; and yet the old tremor in his hand is apparent as he places the portrait in Francis’s palm.

Francis studies the case like an object of curiosity, polished gold and elegant scrollwork stark against the rough skin of his hand. For a minute he wonders if he is to open it, to study the face of the man as he was in command, as he will necessarily hereafter remember him. The likeness will be elusive here, he knows, a half-rendering as the firelight makes a prism of its mirrored surface.

He does not open it, then—no, he need not inspect a ghost of James’s image now, with the real man stood before him. He will see it later, of course, when he is alone, before he packs it away with all he will bring of himself to _Terror_. For now, he tucks it into his waistcoat pocket, smoothing over the fabric to feel the resolute lines of the object pressing to his body. 

“Well,” he says, feeling his face resolve into a soft smile. “I hardly think I will have to remind Anne to look out for you in _my_ stead, but I shall speak to her just the same. I daresay she is used to it by now, having put up with your antics for this long.” Hoping for some display of humor from James, he tilts his head and inclines his chin in a knowing expression. “At least you won’t have to go jumping any more hedgerows to escape her father, so that’s one less worry for us all.” 

James is staring at a vague point to the left of Francis’s head, his expression still hardened in that damnable straight line. He does not move at all, but the mangled croak that bursts from his throat might pass, among friends, for a laugh. At last he sighs, “Just be careful, Frank.”

The sound that wells up in Francis’s chest is pure affection. When the corners of James’s mouth finally quirk into the first crooked hint of a smile, Francis needs no further encouragement to reach out and take him into his arms.

“Oh what a word!” he laughs, “coming from _you_.” He watches as James’s lips part in a quiet huff, apparently startled at Francis’s easy navigation of such weighty matters.

With Francis’s hand at his back, James follows easily enough. He leans close, so far as to lay his head tiredly against Francis’s shoulder. But James has never been one to easily accept comfort that is offered outside his own bidding, and his hands stumble against Francis’s sides like moths too cautious of the flame. Francis bears it patiently, sweeping a hand over the rumpled folds of James’s shirtsleeve in soothing repetition, until the man’s arms slide at last into a gentle arc around his waist. 

“I will shout it from the foretop,” he says, with all the certainty required of his station. “Tell the icebergs that they may not harass us, for Ross of both North and South has required it as a promise.” James lets out a sharp exhalation against Francis’s neck, and Francis grins. It is undeniably warm, almost uncomfortably so, to stand so entwined beside a newly-stoked fire. But such a warmth will be beyond imagining, Francis knows, when he is gone once more to the polar sea; so he ducks his head against the curling sprawl of James’s hair, and holds him there, unmoving and amiably silent. 

“But I am always careful, my boy,” he mutters, eventually, when he begins to wonder if the man is very much awake. It springs to his lips like an unconscious thought, brushing softly over the parting in James’s hair as he speaks. He reaches again to feel the contours of the portrait in his pocket, half-obscured in the press of James’s body against his own. “I will present this to you again,” he says, “the moment I set foot in London.” 

Stirring, James lifts his head from Francis’s shoulder and blinks somewhat sleepily at him. “Stromness,” he says in a corrective if bleary tone, rather matter-of-fairly. Francis stares back.

“Beg pardon?” 

“Stromness. Anne and I intend to meet you at Stromness, or wherever you make port.”

Francis cannot testify to the look of surprise that evidently crosses his face, but it does not escape James’s notice. He leans back in Francis’s embrace with a faint teasing smile. 

“Now, I could hardly call myself an upstanding member of Her Majesty’s Navy,” James says, “if I did not keep watch on the comings and goings of her ships, and know precisely the details of their projected arrival.”

The tired flush on James’s cheeks is apparent even in the half-light, but he regards Francis with eyes that are clear and determined. One of his hands settles on Francis’s arm, and the thumb tucks neatly into the crook of his elbow.

Francis has seen James in every imaginable aspect: at the helm of a sea-battered ship, voice roaring over the swell; bent over his observations with the finest-tuned of instruments; hauling a sledge over the ice, long-haired and wind-hardened; or great and gilded in society.

Even thus, he looks upon James as he is now, and stares for a moment longer, suddenly determined to commit him to memory. For all he knows of James, _this_ is how Francis would remember him, at ease and at his side—not all the hero, but entirely the man. 

He is not certain for how long he looks on, for nothing in James’s expression changes. He startles only when he feels the pressure of the hand on his arm lift away, and settle again as a brush of fingertips against his wrist. Without a word, James teases out Francis’s fingers from where they still wander against his waistcoat, and enfolds them securely in his own. 

Ross’s grip is firm and unyielding. It is a promise, of sorts, though not yet a farewell; for there will be many of those to make before Francis departs. The swell of emotion Francis feels cannot fail to reach his eyes, and suddenly self-conscious of it, he uses his free arm to pull James close against him once more. He presses James’s hand as tight as he dares, and lifts it to rest between them, cradled against his heart. For only a moment, he drops his lips to James’s temple, the ghost of his own promise.

“Ah, of course,” he says. “Of course. Stromness it is, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes: 
> 
> \--The Admiralty held a reception for the Franklin Expedition on May 8, 1845, with the officers as guest of honor, and many Arctic veterans in attendance. Most people will be familiar with the TV show's rendition of this gathering, but although the TV show only shows Franklin's officers, John Ross, and John Barrow, the real party also included William Edward Parry, George Back, Edward Sabine, and James Ross, among others. The ships sailed from Greenhithe on May 19. (See Michael Smith, _Francis Crozier: Last Man Standing?_ )
> 
> \--Before the expedition sailed, Crozier stayed with James and Anne Ross at 2 Eliot Place, Blackheath (which, at the time, was not yet part of London). [The house is still standing](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:SIR_JAMES_CLARK_ROSS_-_2_Eliot_Place_Blackheath_London_SE3_0QL.jpg), and has a plaque commemorating Ross, so you can see it if you are ever in the area. A later owner added a garage under the house, though. 
> 
> \--After the expedition sailed, James and Anne went to stay with Anne's parents in Yorkshire, and Anne gave birth to their second child. The family then moved to Aston Abbotts, Buckinghamshire, where Ross rented a large country estate for the rest of his life. You can find pictures, and a modern floorpan, [here](https://assets.savills.com/properties/GBLHCHLAC110031/LAC110031_LAC18000014.PDF).
> 
> \--The cat in this story is supposed to be one of the kittens who was born on board _Terror_ in the Antarctic. I doubt that Ross actually kept any of the kittens, but given that the mother cat tended to live in the Great Cabin, I suspect they got on very well with Crozier, and Ross by extension. All of this is covered in a [letter](http://www.antarctic-circle.org/davis.pdf) from _Terror_ 's second master John Edward Davis.
> 
> \--Eleanor Franklin really did keep a pet kookaburra while her father was governor of Van Diemen's Land. She mentions it in one of her [letters home to England](https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-905024878/view); apparently the species was known as the "laughing Jackass" at the time, but we'll go with kookaburra for my own sanity :D 
> 
> \--Ross really did call his retirement [the voyage of his life.](https://books.google.com/books?id=r0NTAAAAcAAJ&pg=PR7&source=gbs_selected_pages&cad=2#v=onepage&q&f=false>) I'm not being melodramatic: he really was just Like That. 
> 
> \--Supposedly, after Ross and Crozier returned from the Antarctic, the navy created a new tradition where veterans of both poles were allowed to drink with both feet on the table. I have not seen this referred to anywhere but in Michael Palin's _Erebus_ , but it was too funny not to include here. 
> 
> \--I think we all know about Ross having wanted Fitzjames for the Antarctic expedition by now, thanks to Michael Palin and to [sadsparties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties)'s brilliant [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24806023/chapters/59993329). He had intended to ask for Fitzjames as a lieutenant on board Terror, but Fitzjames was posted to China instead.
> 
> \--The closest portrait I can find to what James would have looked like in this story: [an engraving from 1851](https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw202263/Sir-James-Clark-Ross?LinkID=mp03870&role=sit&rNo=11).
> 
> \--James's broken ribs are a real thing - he broke two ribs during the _Victory_ expedition by falling down a ridge of ice. I suspect he also broke them earlier, during an incident during the 1827 North Pole expedition with Parry, when a sledge boat slipped and pushed him against another ridge, nearly crushing his spine. 
> 
> \--There is minimal evidence for the [Sabine nickname](http://www.craigavonhistoricalsociety.org.uk/rev/kerrcrozier.html), but it was too cute not to include.
> 
> \--I really, _really_ wish we had daguerrotypes of the captains from the Antarctic expedition. Photography seems to have arrived in Australia just in time for it to happen, and the expedition itself was supposed to be outfitted with a daguerrotype camera, but [none of this seems to have actually lined up well enough](http://www.antarctic-circle.org/stein.htm) to actually result in portraits. 
> 
> \--Ross shoving [wattle](https://indifferent-century.tumblr.com/post/623538141197959168/indifferent-century-captain-james-clark-ross-in#notes) into his hat was a real thing. The man liked his flowers, just as he liked his [rings](https://indifferent-century.tumblr.com/post/615463813981126657/james-clark-ross-rings-worn-in-portraits#notes).


End file.
